Don't Save Me
by SharVoss
Summary: Alone for so long fighting a seemingly never ending war, Sherlock has lost interest in living. One-shot/Post Reichenbach, Pre S3/M for drug use, suicidal!, and language/Johnlock


Author's Note:

I've been writing my story Developing based on BBC Sherlock and I wanted to take a break and try my hand at a short one-shot. I hope enjoy.

* * *

The plunger smoothly slid until the contents had disappeared into his porcelain veins.

He placed the syringe down beside him taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly and unevenly.

The once dull room began to swirl into intricate patterns. Sherlock closed his eyes reluctantly resisting the intoxicating euphoria.

He swore he'd never go back here, to this fun house of self loathing. But there was nothing left to lose, no one left to disappoint.

He was dead to the world. Dead men have no purpose.

He had left...everyone...to save them, but there was no one left to save him. As far as he cared, he didn't deserve to be saved. This was, after all, of his own conviction.

Sherlock left with a plan to unravel the web of insanity that Moriarty had woven. Around every corner was another battle and more than often he came out victorious. But he always seemed to be losing the war. One man may win the day but he won't always be able to win the next one when the enemy has an infinitely exhaustible army.

So there he sat on the cold floor of the the dimly lit motel bathroom. Trapped in a perpetual stalemate, he desperately attempted to feel...anything in his now colourless life.

He stumbled to his feet and seemingly floated over the door glancing at his coat and scarf. Even they had become faded and tired losing their iconic appearance. They had once been a vital part of his armour but now it seemed pointless.

He stepped onto the concrete and breathed in the dead cold. It burned his throat and nose but he welcomed the sensation.

Staring down at the road cars buzzed by and the lights radiated intensely in the maddening darkness. It reminded him of the streets of London. Where he belonged, with...everyone.

"Dammit go away."

Sherlock inched over to the stone surrounding the fourth floor terrace and climbed over resting perched on the ledge. He starred at his feet dangling in nothingness. Yeah, that about right he calculated. Just like before, this time without the theatrics.

Simple.

Sherlock looked up at the sky, cloudless and littered with stars. He mused over why so many people revered their beauty. Once he had admitted that he too held some sense of appreciation of their presence. Now the practice of giving meaning in an irrelevant distant object was infuriating.

"Why the fuck won't you leave me alone! I've forgotten about you!"

"No you haven't."

His blood ran cold as he heard a familiar voice answer.

"You're not really gonna do that are you?" The voice asked with a laugh.

Sherlock turned looking all around. No one.

He sighed.

"Is this motel so bad that you've decided to check out." The voice grimly quipped.

Very well he'd play along Sherlock thought. "It's pretty bad."

The voice laughed heartily. "So what are you waiting for?"

Sherlock felt like all he had been doing since he left Bakers street was waiting. Waiting for a lead, his next target, a resolution, to go home. He was tired of waiting. Now he was doing.

"The wind to die down. Wouldn't want to land on that nice Maserati."

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that I'm sure the rich bastard can just buy a new one and sell that one as 'lightly used'."

"How do you think he'll explain the dent in the roof?"

"Skull sized hail?"

Sherlock grinned. "He's probably not a very nice person anyway, just look at-" he stopped.

"What? Have you lost your game? Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes has grown slow in solitude." The voice challenged.

"Don't be ridiculous! A nice car like that at a dive like this? Obviously having an affair. He's had a body kit installed, massive spoiler and oversized rims, that combined with the intrusive red colour and racing stripe paint job says he's got an oversized ego to match. Even from here you can plainly perceive the decal showing he's from out of town. It's easy to see, along with a few other clues, he's an athletic agent who cheats on his wife when he's on 'business trips', he's actually been fired from his firm and has been living comfortably off on his wife's trust who he's likely abusive to when he's home." Sherlock smiled pleased by the refreshing action of deducing the life of a scumbag. He hadn't done that just for fun in a while and it felt good.

"Fantastic." exclaimed the voice.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at that one simple word.

"J-" Sherlock turned then remembered he was alone.

He already ruined his life and now he was ruining his death Sherlock thought. He had been ready when he picked up that syringe. He was determined to walk out here sit on this ledge and jump, and nothing stopped Sherlock Holmes from doing something he was determined to do. Nothing but one person. Even miles away he was saving Sherlock's life. But he didn't want to be saved.

He climbed back onto the terrace and stomped back inside. He walked in front of the mirror over the dresser. He starred hatefully into his own ice blue eyes.

"Sherlock?" The voice called again.

Sherlock's face twisted in anger and he ignored it.

"Sherlock please." The voice insisted.

"Go away! Move on! Move out of the flat, meet a nice boring girl, have a nice boring marriage with boring children and have a nice boring life without me! Just leave me alone!"

"You know I can't do that. Not after...us."

"I don't believe you, you're not even really here!"

"Where the tables turned, could you?"

Sherlock's anger grew until he couldn't take anymore. He thrust his fist into the glass. The thin mirror shattered embedding several shards into his skin. Without so much as a painful wince he backed up and sat on the bed letting his shredded hand fall beside him.

"No."

And that was the last he heard from the voice. He sat there in the silence for hours lost in thought. He knew all along why he kept going he had just needed to be reminded.

His hand had been slowly but steadily dripping blood and it had begun to throb. He examined it and began to painfully pull the shards out. He gave a haft-hearted attempted to treat and dress his hand and looked down at his poor work.

With a sigh he said. "I need a doctor."

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So there are a lot of suicidal!John stories out there and I wanted to explore what it would be like on Sherlock's end. Thank you for reading!

Also I do not endorse drug use, drugs are bad, just say no.

Please Review! Thank you!


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